


Four Times Erik Tried To Make Charles Lose Control, and One Time He Had a Small Measure of Qualified Success

by belmanoir



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beta'd by Sonia, any remaining fuck-ups are obviously mine.  I've basically ignored comicsverse since I don't know much about it and the movie was so different anyway. I apologize for anything that's wrong and/or offensive in the paraplegia stuff.  If you want to talk to me about it, I'd love to hear it; you can comment here, message me, or e-mail me at belmanoir at gmail dot com, whichever you prefer.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Four Times Erik Tried To Make Charles Lose Control, and One Time He Had a Small Measure of Qualified Success

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Sonia, any remaining fuck-ups are obviously mine. I've basically ignored comicsverse since I don't know much about it and the movie was so different anyway. I apologize for anything that's wrong and/or offensive in the paraplegia stuff. If you want to talk to me about it, I'd love to hear it; you can comment here, message me, or e-mail me at belmanoir at gmail dot com, whichever you prefer.

1.

"You need to control your anger," Charles said for the thousandth time. "True focus is somewhere between rage and serenity, remember?"

Erik stopped trying to turn the dish and wheeled to face Charles. "Where is _your_ rage, Charles? You have truly impressive focus, and I've yet to see it."

Charles smiled ruefully. "Oh, it's there, believe me."

"Is it? Shaw killed one child we were responsible for and took another, and you barely batted an eye."

Charles's eyes were hard. "I don't have the luxury of losing my temper the way you do, Erik. It isn't safe."

"Safe for whom?"

"For anyone. Least of all those close to me."

"What does that mean?" If Charles was a threat, it was best to be prepared. Charles was the only one of them who hadn't been training. At least, not in any way Erik could see.

Charles tilted his head. He always did that when he was asserting his command of a situation. Erik suspected with reluctant fondness that he was trying to make himself seem taller. "Let's just say an angry telepath is something to be avoided and leave it at that."

"We can't leave it at that. We' re going into battle, Charles. You're going to be angry. If that will put Raven or I in danger--" 

Charles broke into one of his rare entirely genuine smiles. It took Erik a moment to realize that it was because he'd stated the simple fact that excepting Raven, he was closer to Charles than any of the recruits. It always surprised him that Charles seemed as glad of his friendship as he was of Charles's.

Charles clapped him on the back and turned back to the satellite dish. "The last time I lost my temper, I was eleven years old. You have nothing to worry about."

Finally, something interesting. "What happened when you were eleven?"

He gave Erik a sidelong amused glance, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

Erik felt his own mouth curving in response. "Probably not."

Charles sighed. "I was arguing with my mother about something. I don't remember what--the sort of trifling thing that seems terribly important to an eleven-year-old boy, no doubt. She was sewing. For one brief moment I was so angry with her--her scissors slipped and she stabbed herself in the center of her palm." 

He folded his arms and leaned on the balustrade, looking out over the expansive lawn. "It wasn't the blood or the pain that hurt her most. Invading someone's mind with hostile intent is very different from the sorts of things you've seen me do. I made her forget, but she was still afraid of me. Can you imagine being afraid of your own son and not knowing why? She thought she was going mad. A few years later she and my stepfather had the opportunity to move to the south of France, and I encouraged them to take it."

For the first time, it occurred to Erik that having adults in one's power might be nearly as frightening for a child as being in their power. To whom could one turn for help or comfort? "Can't you see, Charles? It wasn't her fear that separated you. It was yours. If you'd told her the truth--"

Charles laughed. "You've obviously never met my mother."

 

2.

Raven was an indifferent cook, but it didn't matter. Erik didn't think anyone could make pie filled with watery mashed potatoes taste appetizing. He missed German cooking: sauerkraut and mustard and sausages, sharp, strong tastes and textures. 

He caught Charles watching him and briefly entertained a fantasy that Charles would read his desires in his mind and bake him poppyseed strudel in a fit of generosity. Since he would judge Charles to be about as experienced in the kitchen as he was himself, he dismissed it quickly.

He stopped focusing on the food, eating it without really tasting it, and watched Charles. The next time the bottle of wine was passed around, he saw Charles waving it away. Two glasses were all Erik had allowed himself--two drinks were all he ever allowed himself, as he knew how easy it would be for him to turn into a pathetic drunk--and the coincidence was intriguing enough that he said, "Not drinking, Charles?"

Charles's eyes flickered to him, crinkling at the corners. "It's not a good idea for me and Raven to be drunk at the same time."

"Why not?"

Charles hesitated. "He's just still upset about the time we went skinny-dipping," Raven said, laughing.

"Now, now, there's no need to tell them about that," Charles said with subtle relief. 

Under cover of Raven's enthusiastic anecdote, Erik leaned in. "What's the real story?"

Charles considered him for a moment before capitulating. "I brought a university friend home once. Raven was about fourteen or fifteen, and she developed a bit of a crush. That evening we were all quite drunk and my friend announced that he'd always wanted to sleep with Betty Grable."

"So Raven turned into Betty Grable," Erik guessed.

Charles's smile was a little mechanical. "Got it in one. I erased his memory of it, of course, but my control wasn't at its finest. The next morning, he didn't recognize Raven at all."

"Sounds easily fixed."

Charles's eyes narrowed. "There were implications. Raven's status isn't totally secure."

"What does that mean?"

"You know she's not really my sister, don't you?"

"It seemed unlikely."

"My mother and stepfather believe her to be some sort of orphaned long-lost cousin. It's a simple cover story so long as no one goes digging, but there's no paperwork, no birth certificate. Committed on a larger scale, a mistake like ours could have cost us everything."

Erik leaned back in his chair, watching Charles closely. "I'd like to see anyone take Raven away from you."

Charles laughed. "When I'm sober, yes." 

He leaned in. "This, right here, if the safest you will ever be. If you can't test your control here, where can you?"

"You have a point. Well, tomorrow is my turn for drinking. If you still want me in your mind drunk then, I'll oblige you."

"Charles--"

"No, Erik," Charles said with finality. He turned his empty wine glass around in his hand. "Someday I'll run up against the limits of my control. I don't plan on Raven ‘taking the rap' for it, as the students say."

Raven was of age now. It wasn't the child welfare board that Charles was afraid of. He might look like an Aryan wet dream, but perhaps the dread of separation and internment wasn't foreign to him after all.

Charles's eyes went wide, his pale complexion turning a delicate pink.

"I'm sorry, did I shock you?" Erik asked with malicious amusement. "Surely you've been called an Aryan before."

Charles's cheeks flushed brighter pink. He turned abruptly to his sister. "I think one slice of chocolate cake is enough, don't you?" 

Erik's teeth clenched with suppressed irritation. He had been doing his best to ignore Charles's own slice, two small bites missing. Erik hated to see food wasted.

Raven's glare surprised him with its intensity. "Yes, God forbid I be blue _and_ fat," she said in a low voice, reaching for the cake anyway--and then she glanced at Hank and put her hand back in her lap.

"If she loses more weight she'll look like an Auschwitzer," Erik said harshly. 

Raven dropped her eyes to her empty plate, her false pink skin turning bright red with shame. Everyone else turned to look. Even here, he was an outsider, visibly marked as different.

He had thought shame was gone from his emotional repertoire. Apparently, that changed in the company of people--of a person--whose opinion of him mattered. Well then, this would be another kind of training, equally useful. 

He wasn't hiding his tattoo. He never had. He tilted his bare forearm toward them to prove it and made himself meet their eyes, reminding himself with deliberate cruelty that if he had learned to use his gifts instead of being ashamed, maybe he would have known how to move the coin when Shaw asked. Their eyes dropped quickly--all but Charles's. Charles gazed back with his usual bottomless understanding, and his usual bottomless confidence that Erik's difference didn't matter.

He put his hand over Erik's clenched fist, leaned in, and said quietly, "Actually, there _is_ something I've been afraid to try. Come to my room around eleven o'clock, and we'll see if I can manage it."

 

3.

Erik brought cake, too. Charles opened the door with a mostly empty glass of Scotch in his hand. He smiled, and then his eyes lighted on the cake and he huffed out an exasperated breath. "How do you know I even like chocolate cake? _You_ don't."

"Raven wouldn't have made it if you didn't. She was probably hurt you didn't eat any."

Charles eyed the cake, obviously deciding whether to allow himself the indulgence. Erik willed him to give in. 

Charles glanced at him, his eyebrows going up. "If it's that important to you," he said with a little laugh, and took the plate. "Pour me another drink, will you?" Erik saw that Charles had two armchairs and a little table in the corner. Their chessboard was set up on the table. 

He sat in one of the chairs. It was old and too soft. Sinking into it made him feel off-balance. He pushed it back from the table a little so that if he needed to stand up quickly, it would be easier. Charles held out his glass, and Erik topped it off. 

"Would you like anything?" Charles asked. "I can make you a martini."

Erik shook his head. Charles made an excellent martini, but if he was going to be experimenting in Erik's head, Erik would rather be sober. Taking the drink and then not drinking it would have hidden his nerves better. If he were less comfortable with Charles, it was what he would have done. 

Charles didn't comment or press him to drink. He looked, actually, a little flattered--which made Erik wonder just how often Charles read his mind. "That would be telling," Charles said, his voice rich with amusement. "It's harder to resist when I'm drinking."

"What is it you want to try?" Erik asked, feeling something like restlessness.

Charles sprawled in his chair. "I think the alcohol will simulate a loss of focus due to stress or injury. Once it's soaked in, I'll try a few of my tricks on you--hiding myself, communicating without speaking, that sort of thing."

"Is that what you were afraid to try?"

Charles's eyes slid away. "Let's see how the preliminary tests go," he said, and moved his first pawn.

Chess was the one time that Charles never read Erik's mind, so Erik permitted himself to fantasize. Charles's bedstead was made of metal. Charles was wearing a watch at that very moment, which meant Erik could direct his hand anywhere he liked. Charles lounged in his chair with ever greater abandon, at one point actually hooking one leg over its arm. And he ate his cake with such simple enjoyment that Erik's throat felt tight.

"I believe you've checkmated me," Charles said, and Erik looked down in astonishment to see that it was true. 

"Well done," Charles said with an utter lack of poor sportsmanship. His smile hurt Erik, so warm and full of promise and entirely unaware of what it was promising. "Only one bite of cake left. Would you like it?" He speared the last piece of cake on his fork and held it out to Erik. Erik was already leaning forward when Charles said, with a tipsy laugh, "I forgot, you don't like chocolate cake." He put the bite of cake in his own mouth and slid the fork out slowly. He licked the corners of his mouth, his eyes bright and blue and fixed on Erik. "Can you think of anything you'd like better?"

Erik drew back. "What are you doing?" 

Charles set the fork down with less than his usual grace--he was definitely drunk--and stood, his hand on the table for balance as he came around it towards Erik. "I had to stop holding something back. I chose this. Is that all right?" He was close enough now that Erik could smell the whiskey on his breath. 

"You're seducing me."

Charles bit his lip. "I'm giving it my damnedest. You can be very intimidating, you know. The Dutch courage doesn't come amiss."

Erik didn't move. "You must already know you're succeeding."

"I know you want to kiss me. I don't know whether you will." And he waited. The most confident, charming picture of goyish good looks Erik had ever met stood there patiently--if swaying on his feet a little--and waited for Erik's answer as if it didn't make much difference one way or the other but he had nothing better to do.

Erik knew like a pain in his chest the effort to show no doubt or weakness. Was this shocking empathy what Charles felt all the time, with everybody? How did he live?

If Erik kissed him, he would have lost his control, and Charles would have kept his. Charles had never planned a training session at all. 

Unlike Charles, Erik had never been given so many things he wanted that he could pick and choose which to take. He pulled Charles towards him by the brass buttons on his sweater, a steady deliberate tug. Charles leapt into his lap, beaming.

 

4.

Once he had Charles imprisoned by the rungs of his bedstead, he took his time. He lavished attention on every part of Charles, but while Charles begged with ease, and very prettily, there was something theatrical in his moans. No, not theatrical, that was unfair. Companionable and voluntary, then, intended to be heard.

"Oh, God, yes, where did you learn to do that?"

Erik allowed himself a small smile. "I've never done it before."

Charles raised his head for a moment, eyes wide with disbelief, as if everyone must have learned the fine art of fellatio at the best boys' boarding schools.

"I thought you knew everything about me."

His head fell back against the pillow with a thump. "Possibly I was exaggerating. You're a natural then. God that's sexy. Maybe it's part of your mutant powers. It's a very groovy mutation, I must say--"

"Stop doing that."

Charles went still. "Doing what?"

"You know what. The patter, the flirtation--you don't need that with me."

Charles's brows drew together. "I don't know what you want, Erik."

It never made sense to Erik, how Charles was a telepath and yet he never seemed to know what anyone wanted. "I want you to let go of your control." After all, he was letting go of his. It had been years since he had allowed himself that luxury, and he wanted something in exchange. Something real, and difficult.

Charles's head fell back against the bed, all good humor fled from his face. "You know I can't do that."

"Why not? What are you afraid of, here, between us?"

"I could hurt you."

"How?"

"I could force you to do things without realizing it. I could--"

"I would do anything you asked, Charles."

"Then do it when I ask! You don't know what it's like to have your mind invaded. It hurts, and it doesn't always heal."

"You've been in my mind before."

Charles's laugh was bitter. "That's like saying that what we're doing here is the same as if you'd tied me up to prevent my fighting you off."

It only made it worse, that Charles would compare the two, that he thought of being in Erik's mind as a sort of penetration. Erik was defenseless against him and Charles's own defenses were immutable.

"I've been hurt by experts. You aren't one. I'm not worried."

"Or I could start broadcasting on all frequencies. I doubt you want tonight's intimate details shared with the entire house."

That gave Erik pause for a moment. They might live in a new age of tolerance, but Germany had been famous for its tolerance once. German Jews had been the envy of Europe. But who could hurt him and Charles, together? "We don't have to hide," he said. "Not anymore."

"I'm not _hiding!_ " Charles protested. Erik wondered if he believed it. He didn't reply. "If you aren't enjoying yourself," Charles said sharply, "you may leave with no hard feelings."

Erik realized with astonishment that he had hurt Charles's feelings. It was something, anyway, to know that he could do that. "Of course I'm enjoying myself." He ran his hand up Charles's bare thigh. "Who wouldn't enjoy this?" He remembered something Raven had told him, and ran a finger lightly across Charles's stomach.

Charles contorted, giggling. "That's not funny, Erik!"

He gave Charles his most wolfish grin. "I've never done this before, either." 

Surprise and sympathy flickered across Charles features. It had been a purposeful ploy for sympathy, but he still disliked the pitying expression. So he set himself to learning Charles's ticklish places. It developed that they were the same places where a kiss or a gentle nip of Erik's teeth could make Charles squirm and shiver in quite another way. Before long, it was almost as if Erik had never asked for anything more.

 

5.

It was Erik who finally gave in and asked Charles to meet him. Charles chose a hotel in New York City, which he described as "discreet." After all, they were both wanted men, these days. Erik didn't know what to expect.

What he didn't expect was for Charles to look exactly the same. 

He didn't really look the same, of course. His hair was a little longer and his expensive sweater was one Erik hadn't seen before. And of course, there was the wheelchair. But he sat in it with the same casual air of authority, and he said, "Hold the door, will you, Erik?" with the same certainty that Erik would. His smile held the same mixture of fondness and distance.

Maybe there was a little more distance.

Erik held the door for the bellhop to wheel Charles in--the doorway was too narrow for Charles to do it himself--and found himself holding it as well for a rolling luggage rack piled high with suitcases. Did this mean Charles could stay a while?

"I brought some of Raven's things," Charles explained. "I thought she might want her clothes. The ones that will suit her natural color, of course, so it's mostly white and black, but there's a yellow sweater dress she used to love that I think would be absolutely stunning--"

"I'm not sure she'll have much use for them."

Charles sighed, looking Erik up and down. His eyes went to the cape draped over the back of a chair. He obviously found the clothes vulgar. Erik didn't mind. After blending in for so long while hunting Shaw, he liked standing out, liked making people stare. Besides, it wouldn't do to let Emma upstage him. "I suppose you all dress like you're in the circus, then," Charles said. "What is Raven wearing, spangles and feathers?"

Erik smirked. "Not much, actually."

It took a moment for Erik's meaning to sink in. Charles's jaw dropped. "Tell me she's not going around naked."

Erik nodded.

"Dammit, Erik! I trusted you to look after her. She's going to get herself into trouble that way. Men will get the wrong idea."

"We aren't you, Charles. We don't have uniforms. No one will hurt her."

Charles shook his head. "You filled her head with that nonsense about being like a tiger, but she isn't a tiger. She's a girl, a very sheltered girl, and she has no idea what goes on in men's minds. I happen to have actually seen the filth that--"

"She misses you."

For a moment, Charles's face was very still. "She's welcome to visit any time she likes."

"I'll tell her."

"And of course I'd be happy to accept reverse charges if she wanted to call."

The absurdity of the idea that he would need a phone to talk to Mystique made Erik grin. "Don't sulk, Charles. It doesn't become you."

After a moment Charles grinned back. "I don't suppose it does. Are you really going to wear that all evening?" He gestured at the helmet with the same amused tolerance he would have given to a piece of tasteless jewelry. As if it wasn't as impassable a barrier between them as the wheelchair he sat in. But when Erik took it off, his face shifted for a moment, wonder and sadness and longing chasing each other across it and vanishing. Erik felt a flare of triumph. It meant something after all, then. 

"You should really go and comb your hair," Charles said, amused and tolerant once more.

Erik had to dig through his valise for a minute to find his comb; he should get a metal one for convenience. He tidied his hair in the mirror over the dresser, not wanting to let Charles out of his sight. As always just after taking the helmet off, he felt lightheaded, almost weightless. He wondered if Charles was reading his mind, and if so, what he saw.

"Lift me onto the sofa," Charles requested. His arms settled around Erik's neck with the same proprietary weight as always. Setting him down was awkward, though--Erik didn't know how to compensate for Charles's unmoving legs and moved backwards too soon. Charles righted himself with ease, but Erik felt a moment of despair that Charles's body had never become familiar, and now it was changed.

He hovered, unsure what to do, but Charles was so close and one of his small, beloved eyebrows was winging upward quizzically. Erik could smell his soap. He kissed him, a desperate question. Every inch of his skin buzzed.

Charles smiled against his mouth. "I thought it would take me at least a couple of hours to get you into bed."

Erik braced himself on the arm of the sofa. His forearm trembled with effort and hunger. He couldn't believe that Charles was really here, that it was really the tips of Charles's hair brushing his forehead as he kissed Charles's jaw and chin, and then his mouth again.

Then Charles was in his mind, soothing him, bringing serenity. Erik gasped like a drowning man coming up for air and lowered himself to his knees before the sofa, burying his face in the fine wool of Charles's slacks. He could feel the perfect crease against the corner of his mouth.

Charles's fingers dug into the muscles at the join of neck and shoulder, the ones that were sore all the time now. Like all of Charles's touches, it hurt and felt good in equal measure.

"Not _all,_ surely," Charles said with a soft laugh. Erik didn't reply. He usually couldn't sense Charles in his head, but at the moment Charles wasn't bothering to be subtle. He could feel Charles basking in his consciousness, using Erik's responses to direct his fingers. It filled him with blank incomprehension that his thoughts could be a place of refuge for anyone, but he breathed deeply and didn't move.

"You don't have to wear it all the time," Charles told him.

"Yes, I do."

After a very, very long time, when his right leg was beginning to cramp, he shifted. Charles's fingers smoothed reluctantly over the nape of his neck and fell away. Erik stood and reached for his helmet.

Charles frowned. "Erik?" 

Erik held it out. "It's for you. It should block your gift so you can lose control without worrying about hurting anyone."

"You want me to put that on," Charles said flatly. Erik nodded. Charles rubbed at his temple, not as if he were using his gift but just as if he had a headache. "You're obsessed with my control. Why? Why is it so important to you?"

Erik couldn't believe that Charles didn't know. That he didn't understand how every moment they were together was a loss of control for Erik. He knew better than to love Charles, and he did it anyway. "You thought we would be partners. Didn't you?"

"Yes," Charles said steadily.

Charles had seen his mind, and he had still believed it. He must have wanted it badly, to have deluded himself with such energy. Erik waited a moment, until he could trust his voice. "I never thought so," he said, and Charles flinched. "I could never believe it would happen, but I wanted it. This is as close to your trust as I can get, Charles. And I want it."

Charles raised his eyebrows. "My trust? What about your trust, Erik?"

Rage swelled in his chest. He pushed it back the way Charles had taught him and smiled. It probably wasn't a nice smile. "I'm not wearing my helmet." 

Charles's lips compressed into a thin line. "Give me that." Erik handed it to him in silence, and Charles jammed it over his head. It was too big for him. It looked all wrong with his round, pretty face. But Charles said, with an edge in his voice, "Happy now?" and Erik couldn't laugh.

He met Charles's eyes steadily. "Whatever you have to give me, I want it. Your hatred, your love, your anger, your pity and your grief--I want it all."

"No," Charles said coldly. "You don't. You don't want me at all."

It was like a blow to the throat. When he could speak, Erik said, "You've seen my thoughts. You know that I do."

"You left me!" He didn't shout, but his voice was like a whip. "You left me in pain and paralyzed--"

"I didn't know."

"You didn't want to know. You couldn't have waited a day, a week? You had to go then?"

"I couldn't go back," Erik said with an effort, his throat dry. "You know I couldn't go back after the missiles. I had no choice but to run. I asked you to go with me." They would have locked him up. Charles's house was the longest he had stayed in any one place since 1945. He couldn't have gone back.

Ordinarily, Charles's face would have flashed with instant understanding. Now it didn't. He waved a hand scornfully. "Of course you could have come back. We would have covered for you."

"And Moira?"

There was a short silence. "I would have convinced Moira," Charles said finally.

Erik had nothing to say to that. It had never occurred to him that Charles would have altered Moira's memories for him. But that wasn't the point. He might have gone anyway. Charles might be almost as bad at compromise as Erik himself, but if Erik had been in need of medical attention, Charles would have stayed with him through the end of the world. Erik knew that.

Charles laughed bitterly. "You want everything I have to give? I _gave_ it to you already. I didn't ask you to stay. I didn't tell you I couldn't feel my legs, that I was scared. I let you go and I let you take my sister and the two of you left me alone."

"We left you with Moira! Where is she, anyway?"

"I wiped her memory and I sent her home."

Coming from Charles, the lack of pretense or euphemism in how he said it was almost as shocking as what he said. "Why?"

"Why do you think? I did it for you and Raven. So no one would know what you had done."

"Don't blame this on me, Charles. It's not my fault you can't trust anyone."

Charles met his eyes. "She wasn't one of us."

Erik laughed shortly. "You're not as different from me as you want to think, are you?"

"No," Charles said simply. "But you aren't so different from me, either, are you? That's why our choices are so important to us. You chose to leave. And now you want what? You want me to strip myself bare and tear myself apart for you so you can leave me again in the morning? Why should I? What do I owe _you?_ "

This was it, then. He had asked for whatever Charles had to give, and all that was left was anger. What had he expected? 

He had expected that, like always, Charles would give him more than he deserved. "Nothing," he said, the words like gravel in his throat. "You owe me nothing."

Charles grinned, pulling the helmet off his head and shaking his hair out like a puppy. "That felt bloody fantastic, thanks." He laughed almost incredulously, still beaming. "Great idea, Erik. Really, thank you."

Erik stood frozen, speechless.

The smile faded. "Now I've hurt your feelings. I'm sorry, Erik, but you asked."

Erik laughed, a strangled, incredulous sound.

Charles waved an arm at himself. "This is who I am, Erik. It's what I have to give. I know it's not what you want, it's not enough for you, but--"

Erik still had nothing to say, but he shook his head once, convulsively.

"I never wanted to give you my hatred or my grief or my pity. I want us to give each other happiness, that's all. If we're going to have sex tonight, I don't want it to be life-changing or transcendent or an out-of-body experience. I just want us to screw, as if--"

"As if we were normal."

"No! As if we did it every day."

Their eyes met, their mutual, terrible regret and longing like a cord between them. Erik tried to imagine doing this every day, tried to imagine that some days they would fall into bed and just sleep, because there was no hurry. There would be tomorrow and tomorrow and the next day. He tried to imagine what he would do if this were their room and he'd simply walked in to see Charles sitting on the sofa waiting for him. He had no idea.

Charles frowned at him intently, then pressed his fingers to his temple. He smiled in fond exasperation, as always still perfectly capable of taking control when Erik was long past the limits of his. He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in the direction of the bed, and held out an arm. "Help me, would you?"

Erik lifted him with a grunt and carried him to the bed, dumping the coverlet on the floor and propping the pillows against the headboard for Charles to lean on. Charles moved his legs into a more comfortable position with his hands and patted the mattress. Erik sat. 

"Kiss me," Charles said. Charles had asked him for so many things he had been unable to give. This command was easy to obey. The buttons on Charles's sweater had metal backings. Erik eased them through the buttonholes, and Charles laughed and said, "How does all of this come off?"

Erik pulled his tunic over his head. Underneath he was wearing only a thin ready-made undershirt. Charles smiled appreciatively and put his hands on Erik's bare shoulders. Erik straddled him, hands on the flat wooden headboard on either side of Charles's head. "You picked a hotel without metal bedsteads."

"Sorry," Charles said, slipping off his sweater and dropping it on the floor. "Don't know what I was thinking." His smile turned wicked. "I know what you're thinking, though." He undid the buttons of his crisp white shirt, one by one, and then paused on the last one, drawing it out.

Erik snapped his fingers, and Charles's belt buckle twisted and parted, pulling the belt through the loops, as the metal snap on Charles's slacks opened and his fly unzipped. Charles laughed, a happy laugh, and Erik crawled backwards to pull Charles's shoes off his feet and his pants down and off.

Charles's legs were much thinner than he remembered. His first illogical thought was that Charles was starving himself, but a moment after that he realized the truth.

Charles watched him with a rueful smile. "Amazing how fast the muscles atrophy when you don't use them, isn't it? I remember when I played rugby, I'd work all year to get in condition and then over the summer hols I'd lose it all."

Erik swallowed with difficulty. If they had been doing this every day, he wouldn't be surprised. And of course it didn't matter, once he got past thinking of it as something he had done to Charles. This was simply what Charles looked like now. He had never much cared about conventional beauty.

"I really am wasted on you, aren't I?" Charles sighed, gesturing at his own extremely conventional beauty, and gave a sly smile. He knew perfectly well how much it fascinated Erik. How could it not, when he'd once been a poor Jewish boy who'd only seen faces like Charles's at the movies? But it had been Charles's mind that he loved, not his face or body--or rather, face, body, and mind were beautiful to him together, because they were Charles's. "I, on the other hand, only love you for your looks," Charles continued. "I hope you don't mind."

"Don't you think you're overdoing the telepathy this evening?"

"I have a lot of lost time to make up for. Now get out of your pants, and help me get this underwear off." Erik obeyed, and in a minute they were both naked.

They had only done this a few times, and each time Erik had been caught up in his own private competition, trying to imprint him and Charles on each other as quickly and as deeply as he could, wondering which marks would scar. He had known it couldn't last. It hadn't. Yet here they both were, even so. "Where are you still ticklish?" he asked.

Charles laughed, a pleased sound. "Not on the backs of my knees anymore, I'm afraid. You'll have to find new ways to torment me."

Erik sat beside him. "I think I'll manage." He traced a finger up the crease of Charles's thigh. "How about here?"

Charles grimaced. "Not as much as I used to be." His mouth curved. "But--" He ran the backs of his manicured fingers over Erik's own inner thigh, giggling and squirming along with him as he skimmed the sensation from his mind. "Mmm," he murmured. "I like that. Come here." 

He tugged Erik closer and up, and leaned forward to take Erik's nipple in his mouth. Erik made a noise, and Charles echoed it. He tugged with his teeth and shuddered. Erik watched him hungrily, trying to memorize every detail--and then he knew what he might do, if he had no need to memorize. 

He reached out with his mind and flicked off the light switch.

"Erik?" Charles said uncertainly.

"If we did this every day, we could do it in the dark."

"Yes, but we don't, and--"

"Then guide me." And Charles did. The darkness would never make him clumsy, not here, when he knew the position of his own body and Erik's perfectly. He helped Erik move down over his body with hands and tongue and teeth, sure and familiar. 

But when Erik reached his hips, Charles faltered, and Erik remembered that in the dark, the position of his legs would be the same mystery to both of them.

"Don't bring your guilt into this moment," Charles said. "Please."

Erik nodded. He shut his eyes and breathed in the scent of Charles, pushed everything else back and away and down. Right now, there was nothing but Charles, nothing but this moment and serenity. And lust, of course. "Can you feel this?" he asked, taking Charles's cock in his hand.

"Yes. But the sensations aren't as sharp as they used to be."

Erik nodded and held up his hand. "Lick it." Charles did, more fastidiously than Erik had intended. But it felt good, so Erik waited until he was done. "Are you attuned to my sensations?" he asked.

Charles closed his eyes, breathed in, and nodded. Erik spat into his palm himself. Charles made a noise of disgust that turned into a shout when Erik took him in his mouth, and at the same moment wrapped his wet hand around his own cock and pumped. The muscles in Charles's arms convulsed, pushing his hips off the bed. 

Erik found he had actually missed the way Charles expressed his sexual satisfaction in patter: "Christ, Erik, I forgot how good you are at that. We really must do this more often, arrange it with my secretary, won't you? Yes, a little harder if you don't mind, yes, perfect..." and on and on, giving him instructions and praise and sometimes nudging him with his mind--only more than he used to, because now he was telling Erik how to touch _himself_ , taking Erik's pleasure and piling it on top of his own. 

Erik's body loved Charles as much as his mind did, evidently; it responded to Charles's summons, his pleasure swelling impossibly high, more and more and more, overflowing and trying to pour itself into Charles.

"Never knock simultaneous orgasm," Charles said when it was over, out of breath and happy and still somehow able to talk when Erik was wordless and hollow. "I know it's become something of a cliché in the pornographic literature, but--"

"I told them not to expect me back for a week," Erik interrupted. He didn't want to know, didn't want to be counting the hours if they only had hours left, but he already was and he had to know.

"Great minds think alike," Charles said, running his fingers through Erik's hair. Erik could hear his smile. "So did I."


End file.
